Love is bitter, like a cigarette
by Zyrl
Summary: "Falling in love with her.. it was horrifically addictive and incredibly dangerous. I couldn't stop once I started. I didn't want to." Fleur fell in love with her best friend. Her best friend who was a woman. Her best friend who is getting married tomorrow, not today. So she has tonight to prepare her heart for breaking. A cigarette seemed like a good idea. [Fleurmione/Femslash]
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Love is bitter, like a cigarette. | **Chapter**: One | **Pairing**: Hermione Granger & Fleur Delacour

**Summary**: Fleur fell in love with her best friend. Her best friend, who was in every definition of the word: a woman. A woman marrying a man. Tomorrow, and not today. So she has tonight. She has tonight to prepare her heart for being broken. A cigarette seemed like a good idea. But running away seemed a better one. Would she?

**A/N**: LOOK AT WHAT YOU ALL HAVE DONE. I damn well hope you're all pleased with yourself. It was hard getting over fangirling on this ship. And now, after seeing the #fleurmione tag finally making it on tumblr. It was hard to resist. This one had been sitting quietly in the deepest corners of my laptop for quite a while now. Mostly because I was running out of ideas on how to continue it. But alas, inspiration stroke and I just spent the better half of my morning writing this out. It may possibly have three chapters. This is AU, by the way. I have no beta whatsoever, so forgive me if I make any mistakes; they are completely mine. I'd love to hear what you would think!

**~ o ~ o ~**

White porcelain fingers reached out to rummage through a black leather purse, it was very much French. Said fingers took hold of a white rectangular box, a black elegant label etched onto the front going all the way to the back. Two fingers flicked the top cover open, an act probably done a hundred times, a thousand maybe. The act itself elegant and smooth, as if it had been practiced, orchestrated.

Another second passed, those fingers hesitated, and an audible sigh was heard. Finally, they moved. Taking out a small object from the box lined with white and black paper, an elegant golden label spiraled in an embossed fashion through it's circular shape—it was in every word, and definition; an elegant stick of a cigarette (but a cigarette, all the same).

It seemed to be the perfect weather to light a cigarette. The woman inwardly chuckled to herself; it was always, always like this in England. But no, today was different.

The rain started to pour.

Another set of fingers rummaged through the said purse, acquiring hold of a silver rectangular box. Taking the lighter, the woman flicked the lid open. The flame materialized, momentarily mesmerizing blue cobalt eyes. She blinked once. Using two fingers to hold the cigarette, she moved the stick in between her lips (aware that she would most likely need to fix the smudge of her lipstick later on). She lit the cigarette.

Today was a special kind of day. Not the good-special-kind of day. Just a special day.

The woman took a deep breath, inhaling the smoke. Inhaling the bitterness. Feeling the sides of her mouth twitch out of disgust (out of relief—for the momentary distraction). Exhaling slowly, she watched with lidded eyes as she breathed out the smoke mixing with the freezing air.

Midway taking another deep puff from her cigarette, she felt a presence to her left.

"I had no idea you smoked." A painfully (beautiful) familiar, lilting voice came from behind.

Fleur whipped her head so fast; she almost heard a small cracking noise. Choking momentarily from shock, she coughed a little, and then angled her head towards a different direction and exhaled the smoke forcefully; her head spinning briefly before moving to turn to her inquirer again.

"No… I… Yes." Fleur answered, flustered. She was caught off guard. Not because the question poses a tone that was demanding, or judging. It exuded a tone that suggests neutrality, curiosity even. It was a casual tone, akin to that tone one uses when one asks about the time of the day, or when acquaintances talk about the weather.

"Yes, I do. Occasionally." Fleur smiled an easy smile, a winning Delacour smile. But inside she was trembling, her chest was constricting painfully.

Hermione was standing a few steps away from Fleur, under the mild spray of the rain (holding an umbrella) with all of her glory (Fleur has no idea how this woman can make something such as holding an umbrella under the rain glorious). The woman was a few inches shorter than her; she had brown wavy hair that fell past her shoulder. Her inquisitive eyes full of wisdom and youth. It was colored in the most wondrous kind of brown, almost golden, chestnut. The younger girl was wearing simple, casual clothing. A white shirt under an oversized beige suede sweater, black fitting jeans and a matching suede heeled-boot. But even in her casual-clad attire, the older woman still felt that familiar sting of tears in the corner of her eyes from seeing something so beautiful, so painfully exquisite.

Hermione took a few steps forward until she was beside Fleur, holding the umbrella between them. It confused Fleur for a minute, and sent an inquisitive glance to the brunette.

Hermione only smiled sweetly in response, which in turn made Fleur's heart flutter. Not that she'd let Hermione notice.

"I didn't want you to get soaked in the rain." The brunette whispered, and the blonde's heart skipped another beat.

There was a moment's pause, where the younger woman seemed to be thinking. The wind picked up and blew the brunette's hair away as she tilted her head against the wind to alleviate the damage to her mostly pristine look. Still, a few stray strands of hair fell near her eyes. Fleur very strongly tried to quench the urge to tuck it under her the brunette's ear.

_At this proximity… maybe I can… But no, that would be too weird for friends, wouldn't it?_ Fleur thought wryly. Friends don't really tuck each other's hairs under their ears. She mentally rolled her eyes.

"When did you start?" She heard a moment later.

"Smoking?" Fleur answered, up until that point the cigarette sandwiched between her fingers was forgotten. Suddenly aware that she should have been smoking, the reason why she was outside; she looked away for a moment to take a deep inhale of the bitter smoke. Exhaling it on the opposite direction of Hermione.

"Several months ago." She breathed out, conscious of speaking in a way so that her breath wouldn't be able to reach Hermione. She knew that people could get weird smelling the mix of cigarette on peoples' scent.

This realization though, made Fleur painfully aware of how close they are standing together.

"Is there any reason why?" Hermione prodded her again, still curious.

Fleur made a humming sound.

"No particular reason. It seemed a good idea then." And then shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"Which month was it?"

"Well…" Fleur gathered her wits for a moment. Dreading this question. She didn't quite want to relive the worst month of her existence. Today was the last week of September.

"Around five… six months ago, I think?" She feigned remembering, but she did.

She did remember exactly.

March 15th of that year.

She realized she was in-love.

"March, is it?" Hermione spoke.

She was in-love with one of her best friends.

"Yes, I think."

Her best friend, who was, in every definition of the word: a woman.

"Ah." Hermione drawled, smirking at her. "Same month of my engagement? Heart broken that your best friend was engaged, and would most likely ditch you on Saturday night parties, aren't you?"

The brunette paused for a moment and giggled under her breath. "People usually starts smoking when they experience heart breaks right? At least, from what I see in movies." Innocent mirth was dancing in the pool of her warm brown eyes.

Yes, she was very much in love with her female best friend, who was engaged and was getting married tomorrow.

Fleur playfully rolled her eyes, and then sighed dramatically. "Yes, yes. I am totally and utterly, heartbroken. Crushed, really." As she clutched her free hand over her chest. Fleur wanted to repeat the act of rolling her eyes. Painfully aware of the sarcastic tone she was using and at the same time, the fact that everything she just said is true. How ironic, really, not that the younger woman knew.

"And you watch way too much movies." Fleur added as an after thought.

Hermione laughed her usually charming laugh. She was such a charming creature, Fleur thought. A gentle smile was already pulling at her lips before she forced herself to look away.

She couldn't—wouldn't, antagonize herself further. As soon as the sun sets tomorrow, she will be out of here. She would be going back to France for the mean time. To heal, to move on perhaps, if she ever could.

"Does it bother you?" She inquired in a moment when Hermione's laugh faded into small chuckles and giggles.

Hermione smirked, her chest vibrating again trying to hold her laughter in. It seemed that the blonde's question was amusing to her. "You being heartbroken over me?" She drawled out playfully and proceeded to dissolve in fits of (lovely, charming) laughter.

Fleur laughed at that, the retort was humorous in itself (only if it weren't so true).

"Yes," Fleur smirked, and pause a moment before taking another inhale of the smoke. The stick was almost finished.

"No, I meant me smoking, should I put it out?" She slightly changed the subject. Cigarettes were a far less heartbreaking topic than her best friend's marriage is, thank you very much.

The brunette simply gave her a look. Fleur took it as a no, and she was right. She smiled sheepishly back at the brunette, and received a serene smile in return. Comfortable silence fell upon them. She looked onward, and below. The night was young, and the city was very much alive. She did not like London, not at first. Not until she met the brunette currently snaking an arm around her waist. She stiffened slightly but she forced herself to relax. It was an intimate gesture, a gesture they both shared millions of times, and it was innocent too. At least, on the side of the brunette. Fleur thought wryly, it still made her heart flutter uncontrollably. And how her voice seems lodged in her throat. She closed her eyes for a moment, dreading the next thing she'd know the brunette would do.

She opened her eyes as Hermione pressed the side of her cheek against the blonde's shoulder, like she had done so many times before. And like every other time, Fleur wrapped her arm around her best friends' shoulder too. But unlike every other time, this one was the most painful. She knew exactly that this would perhaps, be the last time, in a very long time.

The cigarette stick sandwiched between her fingers was almost forgotten, she glanced at it and contemplated on getting rid of it, but instead she took another drag. Lifting her free hand up to her face, inhaling deeply her eyes almost watered (Fleur kept internally arguing that the water threatening to fall in the corners of her eyes were because of the smoke) but she kept them at bay. Her mind running a thousand miles per second, she owes it to Hermione. She needs to be brave, and to tell her right now that she can't possibly attend her wedding. And she needs a damned good excuse, an excuse worthy for their 8 year's worth of friendship.

The smoke was incredibly bitter on the tip of her tongue. Oh screw it all. She mentally chided. Exhaling the smoke, throwing down the cigarette and taking a deep breathe to calm her senses. She will make up something, anything. And she has the courage to do this now. Yes, she would say it now. She would say that she needed to be away, to do… something, anything!

The sudden wave of bravery and courage (what's left of it, really) enabled her to open her mouth. But before she could utter a word, a syllable, before she made any sound at all—Hermione beat her to it.

"You would be there though, right? You'd take me to the altar. You'll hold my hand?"

Hermione said in a very quiet, insecure voice. Fleur knew that tone so well. It's the kind that she only really uses with the people she trusts the most. She was scared, and not for the reasons Fleur selfishly wanted her to be scared for. And Fleur? She cursed internally, time and time again. Because her heart could not deny Hermione; her heart would never deny the incredibly young, scared and amazing girl she's holding in her arms.

So the blonde gathered the brunette closer, tightening her arm wrapped around the smaller girl's shoulder, and shifting only enough so that she can press her lips against the top of the brunette's head.

"Of course, mon amie." Fleur responded evenly, reassuringly.

"Really? You promise?" Hermione asked again, pulling away slightly and looking up at the woman holding her. Searching for something in her eyes.

Hey, maybe she wouldn't die. Maybe she can pass off the tears as tears of happiness and not anguish. Maybe she could wear her earphones and listen to very cathartic music instead when they're about to say their vows and I do's.

"I swear, you have my word." Fleur whispered quietly.

Fleur looked down on the smaller girl, making the eye connection. Betraying her defenses for a moment and letting her feelings seep through her cobalt blue eyes. It wasn't difficult to do, she felt like she was swimming, drowning peacefully—if there ever was such a thing, as she lost herself on Hermione's eyes. She swam in the warmth, the honesty, the gentle fierceness and the way it seemed to be looking for something. And Fleur prayed and hoped, in that moment of foolishness, where she let herself get lost on those eyes she fell in love with; Fleur prayed that Hermione found what she was looking for. It seemed to last forever, and then none at all.

"Hermione?" A male voice behind them broke the trance. Both women blinked slowly, as if disoriented. And then a bit faster, and soon enough, the brunette was pulling away from her, turning around but still holding the umbrella in between them before lowering it slightly and then completely.

When did it stop raining? Fleur thought wildly.

"Oh and Fleur, Hello!" The male voice again, and Fleur looked to his direction—but not before swiping a side-glance to Hermione. Making sure she was okay, and as it was that moments ago that she seemed so vulnerable, she looked so strong now (smiling pleasantly at the boy—no, the man). Like nothing would defeat her. It was a testament to how her insecurities, and all the things she feared were only revealed to those she trusts the most.

Fleur smiled, a winning Delacour smile—like she's done hundreds, thousands, millions of times before.

"Ronald, hello. Hermione and I were just talking." She spoke pleasantly.

The redheaded man, walked towards them. Hermione met her halfway and they hugged intimately. And Fleur wanted to look away. She hated that they can hug the same way she and Hermione does. And the only (the most important) difference is that their hug was a touch of a lover's. And Fleur's was that of a friends'.

She mentally shook herself, zoning in on the conversation. They already separated, but held each other at arm's length. And she wanted to push the boy's hands away and shout mine, mine, MI—Fleur sighed.

"Ron! We're not supposed to see each other on the night before our wedding, you know! They say it's bad luck." Hermione reprimanded in an amused tone. The boy just smiled sheepishly.

"I couldn't help it. I wanted to see you and check if everything's okay. And I wanted to make sure you get home safely." Ron said quietly, intimately, but as if remembering there was another person in the room, he let go of Hermione and stepped back completely; but moved to grab the brunette's hand in his and entwined their fingers.

And Fleur? Fleur wished again that her vision would not hone in on such intimate actions. Or that her hearing was hypersensitive to the tone and the emotion of the voice they're using.

The read-head faced Fleur, smiling sheepishly and scratching the back of his neck (something the blonde found quite cute the first time they met, but quickly dismissed the thought when she realized his true intentions with her best friend) and spoke.

"I hope you don't mind if I'm taking her away from your conversation? I just wanted to make sure she gets home safe-"

"Non, it is certainly fine monsieur." Fleur cut his rambling short politely, smiling pleasantly at the two. Betraying what she's really feeling inside. She really, really wanted to be alone right now.

"Alright well, I suppose we will see you tomorrow then?" Ron smiled, flashing his boyish grin. This too, she found charming before. In a that-is-such-a-cute-smile-if-only-I-play-for-your- team kind of way.

"Oui," she replied instantly, moving her gaze to Hermione and smiling more naturally. Less forced around the edges. It came naturally, like every other time when she looks at the brunette. "I will be there."

Niceties are made, kisses on the cheek goodbyes, as well as hugs, see you soon's and a bout of take care's. Fleur watched the pair walk hand in hand towards the well-lit room, and down to the stairwell until their figures completely disappeared. She watched how the boy had his hand splayed firmly against the small of Hermione's back, guiding her gently. How she wished that it could be her, guiding the brunette down the stairwell gently. It struck her how painful this longing felt like. How it was capable of robbing air from her lungs.

She closed her eyes for a full minute, sagging down on the railing, gripping the metal tightly and she took a calming breath. She opened her eyes only to have them close again, as a single droplet fell beside her cheek. And then another, and one other more, unable to hold it in any longer, a choked sob escaped her throat before she clamped her mouth tightly shut. She opened her eyes again and let the rain against her face, streaking wet, cold lines on her skin. She stayed there until she could no longer tell apart her own tears from the rain falling from the heavens.

"Merde. I need a cigarette. Another cigarette."

She muttered to no one in particular, digging for the same rectangular box in her purse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Love is bitter, like a cigarette. | **Chapter**: Two | **Pairing**: Hermione Granger & Fleur Delacour

**Summary**: Fleur fell in love with her best friend. Her best friend, who was in every definition of the word: a woman. A woman marrying a man. Tomorrow, and not today. So she has tonight. She has tonight to prepare her heart for being broken. A cigarette seemed like a good idea. But running away seemed a better one. Would she?

**A/N**: I knooooooow, I know it's been quite a long time since I've updated and I'm quite terrible at this updating thing so I'll beg for forgiveness on my two knees! I spent quite a bit of time thinking of specific finer points as to why our characters are the way they are, so this bit kind of amplifies/justifies the depth of emotion they're going through.

As always, thank you so much to my reviewers, you guys rock. Seriously. God knows I wouldn't be getting my arse on my seat and writing this out without your lovely reviews.

And lastly, happy holidays! I hope everyone had a fabulous christmas, and is looking forward for the new year to come!

**~ o ~ o ~**

She remembered feeling small. Feeling so small and insignificant. She remembered cowering over shadowed figures, she remembered not remembering faces of people; faces of people who talked to her and tried to ask her questions. Ironically, she remembered not remembering everything that's happening because she couldn't quite believe that it really did happen. A part of her brain knew exactly what has happened, a part of her brain accepted exactly what it is that transpired, but the bigger part of her was full of longing. The largest part of her didn't want to accept that she's alone.

And she remembered all of the stares, full of pity. She wanted to be strong, really, she did; but everyone was just staring at her with these sad pathetic looks. Like she was someone that would never be back on her feet again. It's as if she lost everything that she has (in a sense, she did, but she preferred not to think so). And once you get used to people staring at you that way, even though you long to not feel the same, even though you want to move on, you start believing the stares.

She remembered the night, vaguely. More clearly as voices, because the images were blurry. And as she grew older, she learned to lock what's left of those memories in the deepest crevice of her mind. But tonight, as she sat alone in a cab, tracing raindrops against the car's window, she closed her eyes and called on the (what's left of the) memory fully for the first time.

_She remembered getting a knock on her door in the middle of the night…_

**~ o ~ o ~**

_**8 YEARS AGO**_

She checked her clock in her desk for the umpteenth time that night. The green little blinking digits informed her that it was just a minute past midnight. She was tackling a particularly tricky part of her essay for one of her major subjects. She paused for a moment and examined what she has written so far, lightly bouncing the pen against the wooden desk. She's so tired already, but she felt as if she needed to finish it early. She wanted to place a quick visit back home to her mum and dad. Living in the University is hard, barely a month inside and she's already home sick. She shook her head and tried to recall the finer points on the subject. Letting the flow of her thoughts focus on the subject, she placed her pen back against the paper; her wrist moving in a precise manner. So focused was she on the task at hand, that she jumped at the sudden interruption.

There was a rapt, urgent knocking at the door.

Muttering against her breath, she mumbled curses, wrapping the worn out sweater she wore closer to her body.

"Ginevra, I swear… If this is one of your practical jokes, I'll have you know I won't ever let you borrow my notes in history agai—"

Her rant was cut short when she opened the door and saw whom it was knocking on her door. Her demeanor changed quickly and she adopted a polite expression. It was the head of her college department.

"P-professor Neveu, good evening, I mean good morni—" She stuttered, but her greeting was cut short.

"Miss Granger, May I come in?" The woman on her door answered.

Now that she's past panicking, because her brain automatically—frantically searched for her memories of what she might have done to garner a personal visit from her head mistress; she saw an odd expression in the corner of the eyes of the middle-aged woman. She looked exhausted, frazzled and… sympathetic? Odd, she thought.

"Of course, please come in." She replied politely, ushering the woman inside her quaint dorm room.

Her eyes sweeping the room for traces of clutter, internally patting her self on the back when she was satisfied that her room was indeed clean enough for the visit of the Queen of England herself.

The woman moved inside, standing beside the desk chair that Hermione was occupying only minutes ago but nevertheless, did not sit down. Hermione tilted her head in curiosity but followed nonetheless, this was certainly getting weirder by the minute, she thought.

"Miss Granger… Hermione… I, I have some news for you. And I truly wish that… it were in better circumstances… Please, I think you need to take a seat."

The woman spoke— every word laced with exhaustion as she moved to take Hermione's hand in hers and guided the brunette to sit down.

Hermione was perplexed, but followed. She took the seat offered and the woman moved to stand in front of her, and then bended her knees so that they were at eye level. Hermione was not particularly fond of the idea of her personal space being invaded by another person, even if the said person was by far, one of the most intelligent, warm and confident person she'd had the privilege of meeting in her stay in the University.

The woman took both of Hermione's hands that were primly placed against her lap, looked into her eyes and spoke quietly.

"I… received news only a few moments ago. Your home, it was reported to have caught fire… your parents. Your parents were there. They are in a fatal condition and being rushed to the hospital right now. The cause of the fire… They haven't found out ye—"

Her heart dropped to her stomach, and she could've sworn her tongue lunged to her lungs and choked her throat because she couldn't speak, or breathe. She forgot the warmth enclosed on her hands, or the soft voice speaking gently to her. It was just all a dull sound to her brain. She valiantly tried to digest the information that was given to her, to analyze it, to argue on it, like every history lesson or technical theory that she's ever studied. She wanted to disprove the information given, but the problem was that it wasn't a theory. They were simply facts, (cruel) facts given to her by her professor. She closed her eyes and stood abruptly, the harsh graze of the wooden chair against the marble floor, the sound of the chair stumbling down brought her senses back.

She did not know how she got there, or how she got dressed, how her feet were now laden with warm comfortable socks she bought before the term started with her Mum. She forgot when she wore her wristwatch, how weird it is that she can feel such a heavy weight on her wrist because of it. She wanted to fling it off.

Green blinking digits bore into her eyes. The watch read 4:01AM. Wasn't it only 12:01AM? But she was now standing in a white room.

A white room with two hospital beds.

A room without a window.

She felt claustrophobic then. She moved her gaze to the hospital beds.

There were two bodies, covered with a white cloth.

**~ o ~ o ~**

_**PRESENT TIME**_

Hermione breathed deeply, opening her eyes and crushing the heel of her palm against her eyes. It's been 8 years since the death of both of her parents. But that part of her, it still felt raw. And right now she felt as though she was scratching on a raw wound.

She took another breath to calm her senses.

It was true what people said that there was no such thing as getting over losing a loved one, Hermione mused. There would always be that blank space, an empty void that's supposed to take up memories, but now unused. And no matter how many or few experiences you have after the loss of these people, anyone would be hard-pressed to say that it could be filled up again. But…

A soft (unbidden) smile suddenly tugged into the corner of her lips.

But every once in a while, someone comes along and helps to make it better. Every once in a while, someone worthwhile will fill you up and make you whole again.

_"I thought photography majors were ze, 'ow do you say it, the outgoing kind and loves outdoors?"_

**~ o ~ o ~**

_**8 YEARS AGO**_

It's been five days since the burial of her parents. And to be quite honest, she did not feel much. To be brutally honest however, she did not feel anything at all. And that was the problem. She felt empty, and she felt hollow. Her mother told her she's the most vibrant person she'd ever met. Her mom used to tell her that she reminded her of her father when he was young.

Every night before she goes to sleep, she would make her mother tell her stories about how she and her father met. Her mother would always have this loving look in her eyes, fond as they recollected the memories. The calm voice always lulled her to sleep. Her mother probably thought that she was not listening (or that she did not understand), but she could always remember the part clearly when she says the words "your father had this look in his eyes, he cared deeply for different kind of things, he cared for people and he wants to be always fair. He had a passion for curiosity in his eyes… You have the same eyes, Hermione. And like your father, I think you'd grow up to be a very lovely young lady…" seeing the loving gaze and the soft touch of her mother's hand against her forehead, she drifts off to sleep every night after hearing those words.

Hermione blinked, furiously trying to rid herself of all her emotions. She just wanted to forget all of it. She just wanted to move on. That would be the brave thing to do, that's what her parents would want her to do.

But she hasn't cried since the night that she stood there in the windowless room with mismatching socks, a heavy wristwatch and the bodies of the only family she knew. Was there something wrong with her? She should be crying. That's the logical thing to do.

She should be moping around. Is she heartless? It seemed that her heart was forgotten somewhere, probably stepped over a hundred times by complete strangers. Broken, bruised and gone.

Maybe that's why she couldn't feel anything at all.

Maybe that's why people are looking at her the way they are.

She's beyond sad, that she just felt numb.

She remembers all the stares, all the sympathetic stares it's as if they knew exactly how it felt to lose your family—the only family that you know. She remembers how they were trying to communicate that they feel sorry for her. That they pity for her.

She scoffed internally. She did not need their pity. She needed empathy—maybe. But not pity, never pity. She just wants to stop seeing all the looks in their eyes, like somehow she's going to blow up any minute. She loathed the looks, it's as if her whole world ended. In a way, she supposes it did. But the world is not hers; it will keep on spinning even if her little own stops.

She wanted to move, she really did. She wanted to cry but no tears come, she wanted to shout but she couldn't find her voice. She wanted to—

"I thought photography majors were ze, 'ow do you say it, the outgoing kind and loves outdoors?"

A familiar voice floated, a heavy French accentuating the words. It interrupted her thought process. She blinked thrice, fast.

Looking up, her vision locked with blue cobalt eyes. They were warm.

"It is such a lovely day outside, you should not be cooped up in the library, non?"

Hermione blinked a few more times. The blue eyes danced with mirth, but she saw patience and understanding. She saw kindness, and for the first time— not pity.

"I..." she mumbled unintelligently, looking around.

And as if a veil was lifted from her eyes, everything simply fell back in place. Where she previously just felt numb, unfeeling, not seeing not being aware of anything at all; she suddenly felt like she could see again.

She was sitting in her favorite corner in the library. Right near the big window, she gazed up at it, the light momentarily blinding her. She finally saw colors. Bright pastels and warm hues exploding in her eyes.

She saw the old oak tree. She remembered a very vivid memory of her getting lost in the dusty tomes inside the big library for the first time. Trying to find a seat where she would have enough lighting to be able to read comfortably. And she was drawn to the big window, and when she gazed out she saw a lovely, old tree. Its leaves were shimmering brilliantly against the mid-afternoon sunlight. It was beautiful, and it reminded her of home. And ever since, she stayed by that window to read.

The stranger (but she looked familiar) was right. It was indeed, a lovely day outside. Not something very common in England. Normally she would be up and about, walking in the park with her favorite camera in tow.

She cleared her throat and looked up at the stranger, now being able to finally see what this curious person looked like.

She was beautiful. Extremely beautiful—this was a gross understatement in Hermione's mind.

Her features were… if she was to describe them… and she wracked her brain for a word to properly describe what the woman before her looked like, until she settled for the word elegant. Her hair shone, a silvery kind of blonde against the sunlight flitting through the window. High cheeks, plump pink lips and her eyes.

Her eyes.

"…My god." Hermione uttered brokenly as tears swam in her eyes.

Those eyes.

Those stranger's eyes.

She was confused for a moment because the way the woman was staring at her; it wasn't the way a stranger would look at you at all. It was as if she was looking at her father's loving eyes.

No, they weren't the same kind of blue. Her father's was a deep color of blue. Warm, firm and kind.

But she found the same emotions in this stranger's eyes. They were a lighter shade of blue, but they were warm. Very warm, and kind too.

And she couldn't stop the tears. It was as if a floodgate was opened and everything inside her just came crashing down. She came undone, placing her palm against her mouth as she choked a sob. The stranger's eyes widened, and in a split second all she could see were blonde silvery hair. She was gathered into this stranger's arms in a safe embrace. On hindsight, she could not have known how a strangers' embrace could feel safe. But she did. She felt safe, and so she wrapped her arms around the neck of the girl with the blue eyes and cried. She cried for all she's worth. She cried for her family broken, for her future unknown. She cried for everything that she's lost and for all the moments she would never experience again. Her chest heaved, heavy with emotions. Her breath came out raggedly, and her heart constricted painfully as the idea that she's now alone in the world reverberated deep within her thoughts.

She did not know for how long she has been crying, she had no idea when her deathly grip against the crème colored sweater the stranger was wearing slackened, she had no concrete thought as she felt her body went slack and limp. She felt herself uttering two words in her drowsy state.

"I'm sleepy," she whispered against the soft material of the sweater that her savior wore. Hermione was sure her head was fit snuggly against the stranger's shoulder.

She felt the reply more than she heard it. The strangers' body vibrated as she spoke softly. Hermione thought that the vibration was pleasant, but she strained to understand what was said. She could've sworn it was something along the lines of "Sleep, it's okay," and so she did just that.

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she slept feeling safe. Without dreading her unguarded subconscious, without the fear that her nightmares would soon take over and she would wake up even more tired than she was before she slept.

She knew the stranger would hold her, she felt safe.

So she slept.

It only felt like a second when she woke up again. But she felt more rested than she had in days. She blinked owlishly, scrunching her face in confusion as she looked outside the window. The leaves of the oak tree were now bathed in a yellow, amber glow. She was… in the library?

And the memories came flashing back; her inner monologue, the sudden appearance of a very beautiful girl, her eyes, the floodgates. The emotions. The warm embrace, the soft humming she heard before she fell asleep.

Assessing her body, she has now deduced that she was still (technically) wrapped in the arm of the stranger. Her head was propped up against the taller girl's shoulder, and an arm was draped across her back. She flushed slightly and berated herself for practically falling asleep on someone else's personal space. She stiffened, and before she could voice her apologies—

"It's okay, 'zere is no need to apologize, hm?" The voice spoke quietly, warmly. Hermione also toyed with the idea that this person could maybe read minds.

"And no, I cannot read minds cherie, but you are thinking quite loud for such a quiet person." The girl spoke again before she could utter a word. Her voice was laced with mirth this time. Hermione felt her cheeks flush with warmth.

"I… I'm sorry for falling asleep on you." She whispered in a cracking voice, before clearing her throat and continuing, "…I mean it was kind of rude, I don't even know your name and here I am sleeping in your arms it's as if we've known each other for a long time already. I promise I'm not usually like this with people and I really do think that one should value another person's personal space," Stop, stop rambling. She thought, but she was nervous. And she was still wrapped up in this other person's arms and it's just so warm and comfy. She's too embarrassed to move and look this person in the eye and she can't stop rambling. "…It's only fair that we consult another person first and ask for their permission before—"

Her rambling was cut off by a rather loud chuckle, the girl removed her arm from her shoulder and Hermione instantly missed the warmth it provided, but it was rude to just look at the table so she straightened her posture and faced the girl.

She was smiling a very goofy smile.

"Mon dieu, you are still as adorable as I remember you." The girl said.

…As I remember you? Have I met her before? Hermione thought wildly. Looking clearly at the girl now—in her non-sleep, befuddled state, she did seem familiar. The girls' smile widened, and her smile went into a full blown out grin.

She knew that grin!

"O-oh! Ms. Delacour!" Hermione squeaked, finally recollecting just who this girl is.

The smile on the blonde's lips fell slightly, and she pouted before she replied, playfully rolling her blue eyes.

"Only my professors call me that. 'Ermione, like I've told you a thousand times before, please just call me Fleur. We are friends after all, non?"

Hermione could only nod, blushing profusely before addressing the blonde with her name.

"I'm s-sorry… Fleur, for falling asleep on you like that." The blonde's smile seemed to grow wider with the mention of her name. Hermione quite liked the fact that it made the blonde smile when she uttered her name.

Fleur shook her head, smiling warmly.

"You English people, with your profuse apologies," she shook her head once more, and a few strands of blonde hair fell against her face. The brunette automatically raised her hand and carefully moved the blonde's hair back in place, under her ear (Hermione thought it was completely logical and normal to tuck someone's hair under their ear at this moment, for reasons she could not fathom). It was the blonde's turn to flush beautifully. And then she cleared her throat and stood up carefully.

Is she leaving?—was the first thought on Hermione's mind. And it pained her, for a moment her chest constricted painfully and she was about to protest when Fleur held out her hand in front of her.

"I know it is quite late, but 'ow about you continue your profuse apology over a cup of coffee? I found 'zis quaint coffee shop just a little ways off campus grounds and I am sure you will like it 'zere."

The blonde spoke pleasantly, and before Hermione could really think about the fact that they will probably miss the student curfew, or dinner, she was already reaching her hand out to the blonde and murmuring a quiet "Yes, I'd love to," which made the blondes' smile more radiant.

**~ o ~ o ~**

_**PRESENT TIME**_

Hermione smiled fondly at her recollection of that memory. She met Fleur once before, through one of the countless seminars she's attended for art history—that and because the blonde girl was quite famous, especially in the elite group of photography majors in campus. Another photography major, apparently a cousin of hers asked her once to pose as a model to be used for posters on a fashion event for a charitable cause. And ever since then, she has been a familiar face on very elegant and tasteful posters for major events around the school.

She remembered how thick Fleur's accent was. They met during Fleur's first year in England. Hermione learned that the blonde moved to the country to study Art and History in one of the most prestigious university offering the said degree.

Fleur wanted to be a writer (and now she is, and a successful one at that), though most would assume that she'd be in the line of modeling. She looked every bit of what a model in a fashion magazine would be like, Hermione mused. She still stuck to the first description of Fleur that she had the first time they met. She simply exuded elegance—and the fact that she did not even try to look elegant at all? How she made walking look so smooth, like she'd be meeting a royalty with the way her sure footsteps would graze the ground. She could move very stealthily too, Hermione smiled at that. Fleur sometimes reminded her of a feline.

That was one of the most memorable days of her life. Apparently, Fleur heard from a common friend of what happened to her. And she had no idea why the blonde thought it would be a good idea to seek her out but she couldn't thank her angels enough for bringing Fleur to her life in that exact moment.

The blonde's eyes cracked something in the armors and facades she so woefully built after her parents were gone. And then the floodgates—it was by no means an easy task, dealing with her that is. She did not know why Fleur stuck with her. Some days she would be extremely depressed, some days she would try to ignore everything and bury her self in her schoolwork.

She would pull back from everything but the blonde's blue eyes would eventually ground her and bring her back to reality. That this is her life now—that she may be possibly alone but she has friends, she has Fleur. And the blonde made sure of that; she first was skeptical about the blonde's intentions, going as so far as picking a fight with Fleur a few weeks after the other woman continually sought her out, walking to and fro her own college department to Hermione's just to bring her a late dinner in the library when she's locked herself out of everyone, sometimes coaxing (bribing) her for coffee (where in Hermione would finally relent, because it's caffeine).

She lashed out at the blonde then, Hermione pointed out that she was a lost cost, and that she did not need the other woman's constant care of her. In truth, she was simply scared of holding on to someone again—believing that she would never be alone. The thought of giving into the friendship offered to her completely terrified her, because she did not want to lose someone again. And Fleur could so easily be that someone in her life. She was logical enough to figure out that Fleur would most probably return to France after getting her degree. And it was only two years more before that happens.

The blonde had no trouble pointing out her unspoken fears though, Fleur lashed back as much as Hermione did. Verbalizing all the things that the brunette could not say, hitting every metaphorical red button there is to press until they were both left with tear-streaked faces. Hermione only realized then how much Fleur paid attention to her, how the blonde knew her so deeply. And for someone who's extremely terrified of letting someone in, the brunette found herself extending her hand to the blonde quietly sobbing two feet away from her. She pulled the blonde flush against her and held her. The other woman buried her face against the brunette's shoulder, softly mumbling what Hermione knew to be curses in French, and she chuckled quietly.

Was it not only a month ago or so when she found herself to be in the same position with the blonde? The blonde must've known what she was thinking because she murmured against her shirt, saying that they were not even, and that Hermione had to cook her those waffles that the said French woman loved so much as a proper apology before falling asleep. This time, it was Hermione who held the blonde, and she felt oddly comfortable about the thought of providing her arms for someone for a change.

She appeared on Fleur's doorstep the following morning before the blonde's first class bearing gifts—which meant coffee the way Fleur likes it and the home-made waffles that the blonde sleepily requested the night before.

Fleur appeared the week after on Hermione's doorstep, handing over a copy of the key to the blonde's apartment, explaining that it only made sense because they do spend quite an unhealthy amount doing most of their schoolwork on the other woman's abode.

Hermione spent most of her days at the blonde's apartment, for the first month only staying up late until she had to eventually go home to her dorm for curfew. For the second month, the blonde insisted that it was not safe for Hermione to go home late at night and so started the seemingly endless sleepovers. The first night they shared a bed, Fleur had to wake her up in the middle of the night because apparently she was having a nightmare. The blonde insisted then that she should spend every night with her to ease her worries. Even though Hermione argued at first, she finally relented—and then began the endless sleepovers. When Hermione cannot absolutely go to Fleur's home, the blonde would surprise her by coming over; reasoning that she felt more calm and less worried with the presence of the brunette.

It came to a point where Hermione just goes to her dorm to get more clothes, until a certain day after the end of term when a common friend, Harry, invited them for a night out for drinks to celebrate. They both agreed that Harry should pick them up at Fleur's place.

Hermione grinned at the memory, Fleur had been her old tactless self and did not even think of what her words would imply when she said that Hermione lives with her as she invited him inside, which promptly made Harry blush as he definitely had proof of that when Hermione came out of the en suite, only wearing a bathrobe that clearly belonged to Fleur, asking the blonde if they had any toothpaste left. Which made them the prime teasing point of the night when Harry had been successfully intoxicated and spilled what happened when he picked them up. Ginny made it a point to call them out on their newly wed couple vibes whenever she had the chance to.

This would have bothered the brunette if it were any other person but it was Fleur, so she only shook her head in amusement and let them at it. The blonde only grinned and added fuel to the fire when she proudly said that she would ask Hermione to move in soon, stretching her arm behind the brunette's seat and winking at the others seated in front of them as they all howled in laughter. It had been a good night, indeed.

A few days later, Hermione went 'home' to Fleur's apartment, carrying stacks of paper neatly organized in a folder. She sat the blonde down and opened the folder, pushing it across the kitchen island to Fleur. It was a listing of apartments closest to the university, with their pros and cons listed. Which promptly made the blonde grin and raise her eyebrow elegantly before raising her head and sending a questioning glance to the brunette, even though she most likely already knew what the brunette was trying to imply.

Hermione only shook her head amusingly and said that they are moving in together, and that it only makes sense and is quite logical. Which abruptly resulted to a rant of how practical it would be to share bills for everything instead.

They did move in a few weeks later to a much bigger apartment before the new semester started.

Her musings were cut short when the cab driver called out to her to ask her for further directions, she almost missed her stop. Shaking her head, she apologized and gave the old man a generous tip; she scrunched her eyebrows together when she realized that the rain had started to pour harder.

She half-ran to the doorstep of Ron's apartment. Fumbling for the keys in her bag before letting herself in, sighing contentedly for the warmth provided by the indoor.

She almost called out for her fiancé when she realized that Ron had probably went home to his mother's house after hailing a cab for her. Apologizing profusely that he had to pick up a few things at work and that it was an emergency—they were technically not allowed to see each other today anyway, which reminded Hermione that she was indeed getting married tomorrow.

Discarding her clothes on the nearby hamper, she rolled her eyes when she had to pick up a few littered clothes on their room. No matter how many times she asked, Ron never seems to remember to clean up after his clothes.

She opened the closet and tried to pick something comfy to wear, randomly grabbing something from the drawer which she quietly dubbed to herself "comfort clothes", oddly pleased to find out that what she picked out was Fleur's old university hoodie that she never were able to return, grinning briefly at the memory that the hoodie entails. After donning the said piece of clothing on, she walked to the living room and sat on the couch in front of the unused fireplace, taking a moment to close her eyes and sink in further into the hoodie.

She opened her eyes, "I'm getting married tomorrow," she murmured to no one in particular.

So why did she have this small disturbing feeling in the pit of her stomach? She was most definitely not letting herself get these pre-wedding jitters. She resolutely told herself that she was not getting cold feet.

Pulling up her feet against her chest and wrapping her arms around her knees, Hermione curled up in the couch, sinking her cheeks against her knees.

Fleur would most definitely know what to say to her in this moment if she were here. Although what Hermione did not want to admit out loud was that she was missing Fleur's arms around her too. It would make her feel grounded and safe because she's taking a life-altering decision tomorrow.

She was going to make a family of her own. After losing her own, all the family she had left was with the blonde. And as much as she did not want to think of it, she could not quite imagine knowing how to do just that with another person—and she loathed not knowing.

Before her thoughts could delve deeper in the most depressing of ways, her phone chimed to indicate that she had a message.

"You'll be okay, cherie. Stop thinking and beating yourself with your thoughts, you can do this, and I will be with you there tomorrow. Waffles and coffee for breakfast? -F"

She bit her lip to try and stop her tears, a warmth spreading in her chest and a quiet sob bubbling up her throat. Her best friend knew her so well; it was almost scary at times. She took a deep breath and replied with shaky fingers.

"Yes, please. Thank you. -H"

Not a few moments later, her phone chimed again.

"8AM, I will be at your doorstep bearing gifts. Get some sleep, goodnight, beautiful. xx -F"

Hermione smiled and closed her eyes, taking calming breathes and proceeded with her nightly rituals. She curled up in the bed, burying her face in her pillow, trying hard not to think of the fact the Fleur knew her well enough to send a message to calm her, yet she did not hear anything from her fiancé.

Although most of all, she tried hard to not think of what that meant exactly.


End file.
